


All the Times They Choose

by saltyynoodles



Category: Assassination Classroom
Genre: Constructive Criticism Welcome, Contemplation, F/M, Gen, Human!Korosensei/Shinigami, Korosensei's past, Not very much plot, Oneshot, Ship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyynoodles/pseuds/saltyynoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shinigami has learned from the world to choose himself— when all else fails, he has the comfort of his own heartbeat. Aguri has learned from the world to choose others. When the time counts, she chooses Shinigami. He’s learned from a single kind face to choose the world.</p>
<p>Or, the world needs more Koro-sensei and Yukimura fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Times They Choose

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently been sucked into the pit of Assassination Classroom and love the dynamics of Koro-sensei's past. I didn't see much in the ship-department for Koro-sensei and Yukimura so I took it upon myself to get the job done :P I realize there's a bit of lack in plot, but I needed fluff, dammit.
> 
> >> I don't own the genius that is Assassination Classroom

It’s the same blasted three-white-one-glass walls surrounding him— over the months of numbing pain and experiments, the world seems timeless. The world has  _ become _ this cell and the few adjacent rooms Shinigami is wheeled into, shackled to a cheap gurney— which is, of course, the bleached white of the walls. If one color could even hope to describe the raging insanity that threatens to push Shinigami over the edge, it’d be that wretched shade of white. Half of the time he wants to just smash into the glass— even if it means failing— just to break the monotonous rhythm of it all (but not truly, he knows what would happen to  _ her  _ if he disobeyed in such a way).

_ White is the presence of all colors _ — all these thoughts jumbling in his brain make it ache.  _ White _ . What a strange piece of knowledge for a master assassin to know— Shinigami looks down at his pale hands, marred with scars from over the years. They’ve held many things over the years, perhaps once they had held a paintbrush instead of a gun? Colors . . .  they help sort the sludge that his brain has become.

Shinigami fingers the collar around his neck and listens to the soft beeps emitting from the machines scattered around the room— outside of the glass. Nothing breakable or vaguely expensive— not counting the collar— is allowed near him. And yet  _ she _ is, though Shinigami can easily see her as the most priceless thing in the room.  _ What a cheesy sentiment _ . Spending seven months in mostly-solitary confinement has really taken the edge off him.

_ Light pink _ , Shinigami’s mind suddenly muses. It does that a lot— his brain never quite used to jump from idea to idea so sporadically (perhaps it’s all the silence and inactivity and  _ her _ that’s making him this way. If the later was the only thing in his life . . . he doesn’t think he’d mind too much). Returning to the first thought, Shinigami agrees with the contemplation— if the crazy is an icy white that burns, Ms. Yukimura is a rosy, warm pink that melts it away.

The dark haired man shifts slightly as he hears the hiss of the metallic, auto-locking door sliding open, only making to rise when he distinguishes the familiar clicking of her heels. If it was another scientist, or worse,  _ him _ , Shinigami would’ve just remained ‘sleeping’ (not that it ever works). But he doesn’t do that to her— he even looks forward to her routine checkups.

Theirs is an odd relationship.

As soon as Ms. Yukimura unlocks the computer and begins accessing Shinigami's files, he walks to the glass, watching her. Despite the harsh lights, her form looks as delicate and kindly as ever. They always take forever on vitals, talking and exchanging soft smiles. It’s the only time they ever see each other privately, alone as one can be in a monitored, illegal laboratory. 

“Do you hurt anywhere, physically, Mr. Shinigami?” she questions, smiling gently into sharp, dark eyes. His lips twitch at the comment— it’s an inside thing between the two, after she’d asked the traditional “any pains?” and Shinigami had made a show of mournfully pointing at his heart (he’d never been theatrical before, either. It was something only she brought out). Jests aside, with all the substances constantly being pumped into his body, it was normal for an overall ache to be present. They’re lucky if that’s the gist of it.

He peers at her through the glass, “the usual amount.” But he doesn’t let it get in the way of their thirty minutes— time is precious. He’d learned that way before becoming an assassin. “Are those new earrings Ms. Yukimura?”

Touching her ear as if she’d forgotten, Ms. Yukimura smiles, “they are! Do you like them?”

Shinigami finally offers a small grin with his slightly crooked teeth (no one ever bothered to fix them), “they’re lovely.”  _ Lovely _ — such casual vocabulary to most people, and yet he’d never even used it until she’d come along. It always makes Ms. Yukimura happy for him to be, as she put it, “more expressive” in his words. And if it produces a warm smile in return, who is Shinigami to protest?

Once appearing to be only an airheaded assistant, Shinigami quickly realized Ms. Yukimura’s depth, her natural sensitivity perhaps making it destined that her career was a teacher. He’s stopped himself multiple times from asking why she stays, returning to this horrid place— he knows the answer (there’s a tiny part inside that just wishes the answer was really ‘ _ you _ ’).

Ms. Yukimura takes care of all the data that Shinigami can tell straight up— pulse, respiration, and other internal matters are recorded by someone else. Perhaps the others simply sense that she’s the only one he’d willingly speak to. Maybe it’s just luck— the first the assassin has ever gotten.

It’s quiet except for Ms. Yukimura’s neat typing and the hum of machines. It may not be luxurious, but it’s better than the streets. Shinigami shifts his stance and gets more comfortable, observing the woman intently. “How are the students? A new school year just started, right?” He’s not quite sure— it’s been years since he took a glance at a school schedule. Even then, it was probably for an assassination. 

Talking about the students gives a sort of normalcy to his days (supposed ‘failures’ of the school or not, they’re a hell of a lot saner than anything he’s been a part of). If Shinigami ever attended school, he doesn’t remember it. But hearing about Ms. Yukimura’s class, her stories, her doubts, her determination despite that— it makes him feel as if they’re just two friends hanging out in a coffee shop (is that what people do? He doesn’t know), discussing their lives. Lives that don’t include psychotic fiancés or test tubes.

Her voice snaps Shinigami out of his daydream (he normally never does). “It is— I’m so nervous about this year though!” Ms. Yukimura laughs anxiously, “I know all the other years have turned out fine— as fine as class E can be— but it’s always so nerve-wracking seeing all their despairing faces staring at me every day. Have you ever felt that sort of pressure on you?”

Distantly, Shinigami can recall once having someone look up to him— did he once have a student? He has a feeling he wasn’t too fine of a teacher.

He smiles, “I’m sure it will go smoothly Ms. Yukimura. The only thing higher than their grades at the end of the year is your teaching abilities.” Her face reddens at the compliment and Shinigami can sense the blood rushing to his face— he’s not used to this, praise and niceties that feel genuine— but around Ms. Yukimura he’s willing to be a bit daring. The rush is like an assassination, minus the killing. Shinigami also doesn’t want it to end. That’s new. 

There’s lots of new things in his life— new school year, new stories from Ms. Yukimura, new experiments from  _ him _ , new pains, new experiences. Some he wants to end— desperately, others he can’t get enough of. Life never used to be this complicated, Shinigami muses. Mostly it’s because of  _ her _ . He never wants her to end— if his joy was entirely supplemented by checkups for the rest of his life, it would certainly be more than he had before.

Life never used to feel this  _ alive _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All feedback is appreciated :)


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